


shining by reflection in a sparkling luster

by newsbypostcard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 10:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7265236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been holed up here for god knows how long (four days, six hours, and twenty-five minutes, but who's counting); Bucky can't sleep; Dernier won't cut it out with his <em>fucking</em> explosions; and Steve Rogers is being <em>deliberately alluring</em>.</p><p><em>Steve, sweating </em>filthily<em> through his shirt, just cocks his lips on one side of his mouth and stares at Bucky through slow, steady blinks.</em></p><p>  <em>Bucky, frozen by the haze of exhaustion, just stares back until something else happens.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	shining by reflection in a sparkling luster

**Author's Note:**

> [hyemi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vrooom/) was remarking on a man at work with many muscles saying "do you need that many muscles. do ya" and i replied "bucky, not realizing he's speaking aloud while looking at steve," and now we are here.
> 
> this is meant to be a gentle thing. they are in love!!!! leave them alone

  


  


"Do you really need that many muscles?" Bucky asks, looking at Steve where he's bent at the waist. " _Do you_?"

Very slowly, Steve's eyes tick over to him. 

He straightens his back; twists at his hips to look at him; besets Bucky with the sort of bland expression that reminds him of the old days.

It might have been a moment if Dum Dum and Jones were not also staring.

Okay -- _listen_. It's been four long days on very little sleep. They're bogged down in camp trying to find a weirdly elusive Hydra facility. They have no leads. It is _fucking_ hot. Dum Dum got shot -- a graze, but nevertheless. Jones won't quit throwing up. Even Morita's dry optimism seems to be running low. 

They're to their ankles in shit, in other words, but they're too damn stubborn to leave without finding the place. Steve's been poring over his self-made map pretty much nonstop, always muttering to himself about what he might not be remembering. Dernier has secluded himself a reasonable distance away and seems only to be drawing attention to their position with minor explosions, to no obvious benefit. And so Bucky, lacking other things to do, has mostly volunteered to stay on watch. 

He's the best shot there, so it makes sense. They're pushing their luck, hanging around like this, and he doesn't sleep much these days anyway. Morita takes eight hours a day, and Steve's been taking shifts enough, but he won't take a gun--

("I don't need one."  
" _Yes you do._ "  
"I'll knock 'em out, we can take 'em prisoner."  
"For Christ's _sake,_ Steve.")

\--so it's hardly as useful as when Bucky does it. Besides that, Steve's their leader. He needs to sleep, and he won't if he's planning on top of it all. He's actually been starting to _sound_ run down, besides, so maybe Bucky's been pretending he's slept more than he has just to tap Steve out of watch sometimes.

Sleep deprivation. That's the only reason.

That's the only reason he has just looked at Steve, clad only in his undershirt with his Cap uniform folded down to the waist, and said the _exact words that were on his mind._

_Aloud._

In front of _people_.

Dum Dum, though sweating through the July heat and half-unconscious with painkillers, manages to sit up on his cot and give Bucky a cock-eyed glare. Even Jones, bent in half with a particularly nasty bout of dysentery, interrupts his preoccupation with his pathetic condition long enough to acknowledge Bucky's running mouth.

And Steve, sweating _filthily_ through his shirt, just cocks his lips on one side of his mouth and stares at Bucky through slow, steady blinks.

Bucky, frozen by the haze of exhaustion, just stares back until something else happens.

At some point, maybe hours later, Jones laughs and says, "We've all been thinking the same thing, Serge." This gives Bucky the opportunity he needs to cut his gaze away, his eyelashes low on his cheeks.

"Just wondering," Bucky mutters, and kicks his feet off his bunk and pretends to go look for Morita.

The truth of the matter is that Bucky has a _preoccupation_. Since Steve showed up eight months ago, it has apparently been his singular mission in life to drive Bucky to the very brink of destruction by way of sex appeal alone. Steve has always been _hot_ ; consummate enthusiasm for being fucked will generally always do that to a person. But especially as time goes on -- as Steve gets more and more used to the dimensions of his form; as he stops making faces like a kicked puppy every time he receives something resembling positive attention -- there's been something else added. An assurance. A certitude.

Bucky would accuse him of deliberately baiting him into thinking such licentious things at all goddamn hours of every day -- because it certainly does seem that way. The way his head throws back when he goes to drink water; the way his throat moves, the curve of his neck. The way he flexes to put the cap back on his flask, conveniently while his uniform is half peeled off of him like this. 

Bucky knows better, of course. He knows perfectly well what's going on.

That is _exactly_ what Steve is doing. There is really no need for any accusation.

Bucky stoops to pick up his rifle and moves out of the tent without saying a word. Morita is poised at the front of the camp; Bucky deliberately moves the other way. He'll give it five minutes, he decides, finding a tree stump to sit on; and he dismantles and reassembles his gun to pass the time.

Steve only takes three. 

"Hey," he says in Bucky's ear. 

It's one of those times, one of those wonderful times, when Steve's edge is sharper than his own -- rarer since he got taller, grew stronger, got _surer_ of himself. But Bucky is still feeling scrappy; he's pissed at himself for letting a comment like that slip. He gets to his feet and says, "This is your fault, you know," and Steve breathes laughter as they tromp deeper into the woods, his arm looping around Bucky's neck.

"My fault?" Steve asks, voice low in his ear. "Because of _all of these muscles_?"

"No," says Bucky. "Because of the way you--" And even just to glance at him, Bucky is overcome. "God _damn_ it, Steve, I mean _shit_ , _look_ at you." He turns and walks backwards, one side of his mouth cocking to the side. He knows Steve will grab him before falling if he trips over a tree root, so he doesn't worry. He is so rarely worried in moments like these. "You know what I think, Rogers? I think you're deliberately drawing attention to yourself."

"Is that so?"

"You wear that uniform 24/7, I have _no_ idea how it's not the rankest piece of fabric in the continent--"

"I wash it every day," Steve deadpans.

"--and then you fold it down and you just fucking _sweat_. You drink water like you're sucking dick. Jesus. Cut me a break. I'm only mortal."

"I can't help sweating, Bucky." Steve is tugging at Bucky's uniform, now, Steve is crowding him, and he is smiling at him, licking his lips.

Bucky not only lets him -- he has to hold at Steve's arm, pressing him against him, as his feet become less sure of their purchase. Both of Steve's hands land hot and heavy against Bucky's flank. 

"And I am _sure_ ," Steve continues, pulling Bucky in close against him, "any dick-sucking proclivities are strictly of your own imagining."

"Fuck you," Bucky bites.

"Maybe," says Steve.

"And then you do this _thing_ ," Bucky continues, as though he hadn't just fucking said that, "with your arms, and your whole back is just…" Bucky scans his fingers over Steve's shoulderblades, as though to underscore his point. "It's indecent. And you're always filthy, _literally filthy_ , like it's not enough to be fucking beautiful, you have to be _rugged_ or some sh--"

Bucky's back hits a tree. Steve licks his lips again; takes Bucky's rifle gently out of his hand.

"I'm just supposed to put up with it, is that right?" Bucky continues, quieter. "I'm supposed to just _watch_ you every day and keep my dick in my pants? Jesus, Steve, you are so…"

Another aborted sentence; Bucky's exhaustion is betraying his penchant for smack talk. Steve smiles; steps closer. His hand is at Bucky's jaw, and Bucky grabs at his wrist, the same way he always does, because Steve is so gentle with him, lately, it hurts, and he has to hold on. 

Steve's breath is hot on Bucky's lips. Bucky's breath stalls in his chest.

Steve kisses him, then, and it all grows hot.

Bucky's pressed between Steve and the tree and, _god_ , he loves it here. Steve has this way of making Bucky _matter_. He's one soldier in a million, in ten million, in a war that never ends, but Steve came to find him, and now Bucky's _alive_. It's been eight months of following him, eight months of stumbling after him like a lost fucking lamb, but it's worth it every time, it's been worth every second.

They don't find a lot of time to be like _this_ \-- they rarely think it's worth the risk -- and it's enough, after all, that they're both here and alive and _together_ on the front. But every few weeks -- every once in a while -- Steve takes hold of Bucky, and Bucky gets to feel like _this_. He gets to feel like he _matters_. He gets to pretend like there's not a war; gets to pretend that it's _this_ he deserves: Steve's hands flush against him, lips soft against his.

Bucky's helpless for it. That much is clear. He might be obvious as all hell and he might be jeopardizing them both, but if this is the result he should probably be careless more often.

"I didn't mean to say it," Bucky mutters against Steve's insistent mouth. Steve's pressing into every inch of him, trapping Bucky with his bulk, and out of the haze erupts sincerity, aching and battling in his chest. He tries to move against it just to learn that he can't; his hand falls to the back of Steve's neck, as though in thanks. "I looked at you and you were so fucking beautiful and I just _wanted_ \-- the words fell right out of my mouth..."

"Mm." Steve's lips keep nipping at Bucky's but don't go in for a full kiss, as though to tease at him, to draw him out further. "The sooner we get rid of these Hydra cells, the sooner we get time off."

"Time off?" Bucky mutters. "What's that?"

"I hear it's this thing where we disappear into a hotel and not emerge for three days."

"Holy shit." Maybe it's the sleep deprivation, but _everything_ is hitting him hard today. "Have you thought about this?"

"Depending on where we are when the war ends, I even have locations picked out."

"What?" Bucky blinks his eyes wide; jolts his head back, forgets there's a tree there. "Ow. You've thought about this _that much_?"

Steve nods; he doesn't move his face back, keeps moving his lips soft over Bucky's skin. "Adjoining rooms. We're just soldiers passing through. Got to get home. Only here until we can get a boat. Few days. Maybe a week."

" _God._ " His hand is tight around Steve's wrist. He presses his lips against the heel of Steve's hand; finds it salted with sweat. He loves it. He does it again, leaves his lips there longer this time. "Do you really think…?"

The sentence balls in his throat before he can finish it, and oh, _god_ , it's so gruesome, this war. It seeps into every crack of light; shatters each shard of hope. It makes him beg for release and abandon hope of same.

Except when it comes to Steve. 

Steve Rogers is a _sure fucking thing_.

"Yeah, Bucky," Steve tells him, pressing his lips against his neck. "I do."

It's hard to feel uncertain of words said into your skin, after all, so Bucky says, "Okay," and lets Steve tip his head back with a thumb at his chin.

There is something about sleep deprivation that makes everything sharper. Usually it's a nuisance, but it almost helps him as a sniper. He can be drowsing his way through a watch, but the first crack of a twig and he hears it, even at three hundred feet away. His nerves snap to attention; his focus draws narrow. He is always an excellent sniper, but he is even better when he hasn't slept.

Eventually it becomes a positive feedback loop. Dernier's fucking explosions amplify, reverberate. The sharper Bucky hears things, the tougher sleep becomes. The less Bucky sleeps, the more alert he is.

But it is not so different, it turns out, with touch.

Bucky thinks he can feel every joint of Steve's fingers. They bend against him; they press; every slight movement sets Bucky alight, and yet -- it is warmth, it is haze, it is the feeling that besets him between sleep and wakefulness. There is something chemical to it, something anesthetic, when it's Steve, when it's _this_ \-- particularly when Steve is _this way_ , hungry and wanting and determined to make Bucky feel.

And Bucky -- does feel. Bucky is taken. Steve's hands have divested him of his coat, they have traveled under the fall of his shirt, and they press against him, hold him down, as his mouth stays open, insistent, taking sweat off every inch of him.

"This is really bothering you, huh?" Bucky asks, his eyes closed, his head turned back.

"Mm?"

"The Hydra base."

"Mm." Hands spread wide against his ribs. "Makes no sense."

"We're taking 'em out," Bucky reasons. "Might've moved."

Steve straightens abruptly. Bucky forces his eyes open; frowns at his expression.

"Of course they would," Steve says. "We've been at this for months. They haven't killed us yet, must have known we would come here eventually."

"That rubble," Bucky mutters exhaustedly. "We thought it was air raids…" 

Steve nods vigorously. "Blow up the old base. Delay us. Long enough to trap, maybe."

"Doubt it," says Bucky. "We'd have noticed something like that by now."

Steve, smiling. "You mean you would have."

"Well." An idle shrug. "Yeah."

Steve's tongue over his lips, his mouth curving fond. "You're a genius, Buck."

"Nah," he says; but Steve's hand is in his hair and he's kissing him, _god_ he's taking him whole, Bucky's solved the problem but he hasn't dulled the edge. Before Bucky realizes it he is rutting against Steve, Steve's hand encouraging at his hip, and Steve's muttering in his ear--

"You said you liked me filthy?"

Bucky's hand is on his neck and his brow is pressed against him, and he shudders with his back against the tree; and when Steve drops to his knees and takes Bucky into his mouth it is with clear eyes, crystalline blue, and soon they will be gone from here but Bucky will not forget this. He will not forget this.

Steve's hands hold tight to Bucky's thighs as he sucks him off, and Bucky watches his shoulders and all they bear; buries his hand in his hair, and comes in gasping moans.

Bucky will remember sleep. Good days are still possible. The war, someday, will come to an end.

If Bucky doesn't believe it for long -- he at least takes heart in the fact that Steve Rogers will always be: a sure fucking thing.

  



End file.
